“What the fuck are you doing?” I cry, desperately trying to hold my nightgown down to stop from giving him a show.
He doesn’t answer, instead twisting my leg up and down as he examines my calf. He gives a breathy sound, something between a sigh and a moan.
“Can you let me go?” I begin, but my cries are shut down when he grabs my hip with his gloved hand and turns me over in one rough movement. Suddenly, I’m lying on my stomach, my face flung into the pillow. His cold, metal hand still grips my ankle roughly.
“What the fuck?” I want my voice to sound outraged, but it comes out a breathy whisper.
He flipped me over like I’m a ragdoll. What is he doing to my leg? Fear bursts through my chest, but there’s something else too.
Suddenly, the hand that isn’t grasping my ankle pushes down between my shoulder blades, forcing my face harder into the pillow. “Stay still,” he commands, his voice cold and calm.
Immediately, I stop wiggling. The pressure of his hand on my back is firm. I’m one-part terrified the Iron Giant is about to murder me, and one-fucked-up-part feeling strangely heated as I lie frozen by his command.
The pressure releases on my back, and I hear the pull of fabric andtingof metal. Unable to quell my curiosity, I wiggle my shoulders around to see what he’s doing.
He’s pulled off his gloves, revealing large hands and tan skin. “So, there is flesh and blood in there,” I mumble. “I half thought you were an iron skeleton.”
He quirks his metal head at me but says nothing. His hands hover on my ankle and the back of my knee, on either side of the nasty gash down my calf.
“Don’t move your leg,” Ezryn says lowly.
The calm dominance of his voice makes me powerless to resist. I take a breath. His calloused fingers run over my pale skin, and I wince as they touch the wound.
Ezryn reaches into a small pouch attached to his hip and pulls out a handful of bright green leaves. Deftly, he slips them under his mask, revealing a peek of tan neck. Then he pulls them out. They look moist.
“Did you just chew on those?” I ask.
But as he seems to love to do, he ignores me and places the chewed-up leaves right on the wound. “Ew, those have your spit on them—”
But he covers the wound and leaves with his hands in a surprisingly tender motion, and a tingle flushes through my leg. The throbbing dissipates, replaced by a warm pulse. He pulls his hand away and brushes off the leaves.
I scramble up and he doesn’t stop me. Clutching my calf, my eyes bug out. The wound is completely healed, the only remnant a bright red scar.
“How did you do that?” I whisper.
Again, he ignores me, instead snatching my arms. I yelp, but his grasp is firm, and he doesn’t let me go.
He runs a rough thumb over a scratch along my right wrist. Instantly, the warmth spreads through my skin and the scratch disappears.
“These are smaller,” he mumbles. “Easier to do.”
“Are you some sort of wizard?” I marvel as he pushes up the sleeve of my nightgown and works his way up my right arm.
When he doesn’t respond, I duck my head down and glare up into the black eyelets. “Hey, how come you don’t answer me when I talk to you?”
For an answer, he yanks me closer, shoving the sleeve all the way to my shoulder. He grips my right bicep and covers a bloody gash where a thorn had snagged me. “Long ago, the Queen blessed the High Ruler of each realm with great magic. I inherited the magic from my mother. All fae have the possibility to be born with an affinity for magic, but the High Rulers receive a great blessing to protect their realm. Such as the blessing of Spring,” he murmurs, his voice so calm it’s almost unnerving. “Rejuvenation.”
I suppose that explains all the ice around Keldarion.
Ezryn pulls down my sleeve, covering my arm back up, and reaches for my left wrist. I whip it away. “No,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “That arm is fine.”
His mask tilts almost incredulously, but he doesn’t push it.
There’s something strangely beautiful about his armor; the delicate markings of vines and leaves, the shimmer of the morning sun off the metal. I wonder what it would feel like beneath my fingertips.
But it doesn’t matter that he healed my wounds. His housemate tried to fucking eat me. And I can’t forget that yesterday he had his hands around my throat.
But maybe, just maybe, there was something to the tenderness in which he mended my skin. I have to try.